


Trust

by kathkin



Category: Adventures of Sinbad
Genre: F/M, Pegging, Porn, Verbal Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:03:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“You know what your problem is? You just don’t trust me!”  </i>Maeve demands Sinbad prove he trusts her, a.k.a the one where Sinbad discovers his suppressed sub kink and Maeve is secretly an epic domme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust

The sun was out, the smell of the sea in the air was mingling with charred flesh and gunpowder, and Maeve was angrier than Sinbad had ever seen her. She’d been angry when Doubar had dragged her away from the fight, and now that Sinbad was back at the ship, the sound of Firouz’s latest explosive invention still echoing in his ears, she was blazing mad, hair standing out around her head like a blazing, fiery crown.

“How dare you,” she yelled, wrenching herself out of Doubar’s grip and launching herself at him like a spring-loaded wildcat. “How _dare_ you –”

“Get the ship ready,” Sinbad said to Doubar with a weary smile. “I’ll deal with this.”  
He took Maeve by the arm and dragged her off into the forest, sputtering in indignation, not letting go of her until he was sure they were out of earshot.

“Alright,” he sighed. “Let it all out. What’d I do this time?”

“You know what you did,” she hissed. “I could have defeated the manticore with my magic. You _know_ I could. I’ve been practicing –”

“Maeve, you’re good and all, but I really don’t think –” He broke off when her glare became almost painfully intense. “It’s just that your spells are kinda – erratic.”

“Erratic?” she said, eyebrows arching smoothly. “Like you’d know. You don’t know the first thing about magic.”

“I know you were about to get yourself killed!” he snapped back. He was too tired for this, it’d been a real long day.

“I wasn’t, I –” she broke off. “You know what your problem is? You just don’t trust me!” He scoffed. “Well, do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Trust me?”

“Of course!” He spread out his hands. “I just don’t trust your magic, that’s all.”

“It’s the same thing!” She backed away, as if reeling. “I have had it up to here with you! I will not spend one more _minute_ on your ship if you’re going to treat me like this!”

“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “Where you going to go? You gonna stay here?”

“Yeah!” she bit out. “Better than being with you!”

Sinbad realised with a chill down his spine that she just might be serious. “Aw, come on,” he said, trying a different tack. “I trust you!”

“Oh yeah?” He nodded. “Prove it.”

“Sure,” he said with a little shrug. “Whatever you say. I trust you.”

Maeve frowned, considering this, then gained a wicked glint in her eye. “You prove it,” she said. “Do something to prove that you trust me. Whatever I want.”

“I trust you!”

Maeve leaned forward. “You sure about that?”

There was a challenge there. Oh, she was _challenging_ him. Sinbad was not a man to back down from a challenge. “Whatever you want, I’ll do it,” he said. “Now, can we get back to the ship, or –”

“No,” she said. “You prove it. Right now.”

“What, here?” Maeve had already opened the back at her hip and was going through it carefully. She brought out a bottle, then looked at him with a smirk.

“Turn around.”

“What?” She marched forward, and he backed away instinctively until his back hit a tree trunk.

“Turn around,” she repeated, motioning with a finger. Sinbad did a confused one-eighty. “Good. Now, hands on the tree.” He pressed his hands against the tree trunk, rough bark digging into his palms. “Good, keep them there.”

“Maeve, what are you going to do?” said Sinbad, trying to use his ‘ _this is my ship and you can damn well do what I say_ ’ voice. She didn’t answer, but he could hear ominous rustlings and clankings from that bag of hers. “Maeve –” He twisted around to look, but she forced his head back where she wanted it so suddenly that he was too shocked to resist.

“Eyes forward, sailor.” The rustling and clanking stopped. She must have found what she was looking for. “You said you’d do anything,” she said breezily. Too breezily.

“Yeah,” he said. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Even let me take you like a girl?”

It took a moment or two of silence (or as close to silence as you got in the middle of a forest) for that to sink in. Then he spun around. “Maeve! You can’t be serious!”

Maeve was already holding something long and wooden and alarmingly phallic, leather straps dangling from one end. “You said anything!”

“Don’t you think this is a bit extreme?” he said weakly.

“I thought you said you trusted me?” Sinbad looked from the wooden dick to Maeve’s stubborn pout. His brain ground to a halt, and all he could do was keep staring, until she said, “Or are you too scared?”

And there was that challenge again. “I’m not scared,” he said. Maeve raised an eyebrow. “I’m not!” His gaze flicked back to the wooden dick in her hands. She was stroking it. It was quite disturbing. “Where did you get that, anyway? Have you been carrying that around all day?”

“Bag of holding,” she said as if he was supposed to know what that meant. “Now, are you going to turn back around or should I start packing?”

Sinbad rolled his eyes, turned away, and leaned heavily on the tree trunk. Maybe he was a _little_ scared. But only a little.

Maeve fingered the waistband of his pants, then pulled them straight down to his ankles, the sudden rush of cold air on his bare ass bringing him out in goose pimples. “Hey!”

“Shut up,” she said casually, and Sinbad obeyed. He wasn’t sure why, exactly. He was the captain, he shouldn’t be following her orders.

He heard the pop of a bottle being uncorked, and then a slick sound, oil or something moving on skin, oh-so-slowly. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do for you?” he said, trying to keep the slight panic out of his voice.

“Pretty sure,” she said, the parted his ass cheeks and pushed a finger straight on up inside him with scarcely a word of warning.

He let out a hiss of shock, head following forward against the tree. At least it didn’t hurt. Not yet. It just felt weird, her finger moving inside him, bending and flexing and thrusting in and out.

The worst part was he’d thought about it. He’d heard stories, of course – who hadn’t? The kind of talk you got at inns or around campfires when everyone was comfortable drunk, stuff about what two men would do between the sheets, sticking their you-know-whats you-know-where, and they’d all thought about what that might feel like once they’d gotten home and sobered up, hadn’t they? Just thought about it, wasn’t like he’d ever been going to try it – it wasn’t like he had a problem with that sort of thing, but when he had a tumble it’d be with a girl, every time.

Except now he was trying it, and Maeve was a girl, of sorts, and if anything that only made it weirder.

He was starting to think that maybe he was getting used to having a finger up his ass when Maeve pushed another one up alongside it, and that hurt. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists against the tree trunk, but he couldn’t quite hold back the grunt of shock and pain.

“Aw, too much for you?” cooed Maeve. “Want me to slow down?”

“Damn it, Maeve,” he said, then, cause he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to talk any more without embarrassing himself, pushed back against her fingers, hooked inside him to the first knuckle, as if to say _hell no, I can take whatever you got_.

Maeve took that as an invitation to spread them apart, stretching him even wider, and that damn well _burned_. He choked out another sound, and this time Maeve didn’t say anything. He fingers slipped out of him – he let out a sigh of relief and adjusted his stance – and then came back slicker. They twisted inside him, exploring, and now that the burn was gone it was strangely satisfying.

Maeve rested her other hand against his hip and pushed in again at a new angle, and for a moment everything seemed to slot together just right. He gasped.

“Like that, do you?” She was laughing at him. He could tell.

“You’re a sick woman, Maeve,” he forced out.

“Naughty,” she said, and slapped his ass hard enough to sting.

He twisted round to look at her in disbelief. “Did you just _spank_ me?”

“Eyes _forward_.” She forced his head back, pulling at his hair painfully, and her fingers lingered there for a moment.

“Why are you doing this?” he said.

“Because you look so pretty when you bend over and stick your ass out,” she said.

“Pretty?” He scoffed. “I’m not a girl!”

“No, but you wanna get taken like one, don’t you?” She was gripping his hip again, fingernails digging in. Why did everything have to hurt? “I figured you did as soon as I saw you. Guys like you, all swaggering and full of themselves like that, they’re always just itching to get _fucked_.” She punctuated the last word with another finger, forcing into him stretching him wide.

He whimpered, then choked out, “Language, Maeve,” in an attempt to regain some dignity.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she said.

“I’m the captain!” he protested.

“Not right now you’re not.” She spanked him again. He hissed.

“That’s insubordination,” he said.

“You gonna throw me off the ship?” she said sweetly, then, “you’re ready.” Her fingers withdrew. Sinbad shifted and adjusted himself – he was half hard already, he wasn’t sure when that had happened.

He heard a clink of buckles, and turned around to see Maeve, skirt hoisted up around her waist, fastening the straps around her hips, the wooden dick hutting forward, a hint of hair escaping from beneath it (red – he took note of that, he might possibly have had a drunken bet with Doubar on the subject).

“Where’d you get that thing?” he said conversationally, trying to be casual, but his voice was shaking. “They sell those?”

“If you know where to look.” She rearranged him, guided him back into position, firmly gentle, and he went, because his brain was soup and his muscles seemed to be going the same way, and Maeve was so softly forceful than he didn’t seem to be able to resist her.

“You ready?” she said. He could hear the slick sound of her oiling up the wooden dick.

“As I’ll ever be.”

The bulbous wooden head of it pressed up against his asshole. She gave him maybe a second to get used to the feeling, then reached down, opened him up, and _pushed_.  
He felt his whole body tense up at the intrusion, and he opened his mouth to say it obviously wasn’t going to fit, so they should just go back to the ship and pretend this whole thing’d never happened, but then something gave down there and it began to slide in.

It wasn’t so bad at first, not much more of a stretch than tree of her fingers in him, but it was hard and unforgiving, and it went deeper, rubbing up against hot, darker places inside him. He rested his head against the tree and tried to breathe.

“Too much?” said Maeve. Sinbad nodded weakly, overwhelmed, then cursed himself for being so honest. He half expected her to go faster just to make him suffer.

She didn’t. She slowed right down, stopped, and her hand slid into his hair again, gentling him, and that really should have been the icing on the humiliating cake, but he just melted into it. He’d always liked having his hair played with.

Maeve started moving again, grip on his hair tightening as she pushed on into him, thighs pressed up against his, wadded up cloth of her skirt against the small of his back, and he’d taken it, all the way.

“So, uh, is that it?” he choked out. “Because believe me, I trust you, I –”

“For once will you please just shut up?” She rocked her hips, moving inside him, thrusting in and out, and he swore.

“Language,” she said, and thrust again, a little harder, gripping his hips tight in both hands.

She found that sweet, satisfying angle again almost at once, doing him just right, his head spinning, scrabbling at the tree back beneath his fingers, then her hips twisted and it was gone again, whatever it was that was making it so good.

“You’re too good at this,” he panted.

“I’ve had plenty of practice,” said Maeve. She pulled out all the way, until just the head of it was hooked inside of him, then shoved back in hard enough that it hurt, like some weird intimate punch, and he cried out. “Just go with it, okay?” she said, suddenly soothing. “Shut up and go with it and I’ll give you want you want.”

He opened his mouth to say _what the hell do you know about what I want_ , and _oh, you bitch_ and _oh yes, yes, yes_ , but then she was thrusting in just right again, over all the right places, and everything was tight and so so hot, and her fingernails were still digging into his hips, he’d have marks for days, and this was all some stupid, humiliating dare, and he fought a little, tried to pull away, but she held on tight, kept thrusting into him, and he relented, went slack against the tree, gasped out her name weakly. “Maeve, I swear –”

“Shhh,” she said. “That’s it. You can trust me.”

Was that what this was all about?

Her hips moved back and forth in tantalising little jolts, and he could hear it moving slick inside him, hot from his own body and ungodly big. Then she began to pick up speed, and he couldn’t stay quiet any more, because she was hitting that sweet spot every time, and it was good, it was just too good. Damn, he’d thought about this, he’d thought about this a whole lot, and it wasn’t normal, who was he kidding?

Maeve had such clever, nimble hands. He’d seen them before, when she was patching up the sail cause she was the only person on the crew who could sew worth a damn, or handling a sword, or working her spells, but he’d never felt them on his skin before, wrapped around his prick, teasing, bringing him off slowly, searching out all the sensitive sports and pushing and pulling until he was damn near sobbing, breath hot against the tree back.

She teased him until he couldn’t stand it any more, then a little, longer, then brought him off, hand curled around the head of his prick, thrusting just right inside him. His head slammed against the tree when he came, knocking himself dizzy, or maybe that was just the force of it all, he couldn’t tell. Everything was fuzzy around the edges, and he came to as she eased the wooden dick out of him slowly, unbuckling it.

“Oh,” he said. He swallowed, blinked tried to find the words. Any words. “Aw, hell, Maeve, what is _wrong_ with you?”

“You’re the one who likes it up the ass,” she said as he turned around and tried to sort out his pants. The wooden dick had vanished back to whence it came, and she was wiping her hands on a faded handkerchief.

“So, uh,” he said. There’d been a point to all that.

“We’re good,” she said, sweetly venomous. “Don’t worry. You’ve proven yourself.” She tossed the handkerchief at him, then turned and sauntered away back into the woods.

He took a couple of minutes to compose himself, catch his breath, then followed her. It seemed to take an edge to reach the edge of the forest.

“Ship’s all ready,” said Doubar when he finally got down to the beach. Maeve was on deck already, in deep conversation with Dermott. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, me and Maeve had a real good talk, we’re all good now.”

“You’re limping,” said Firouz as Sinbad started towards the ship.

“I, uh, twisted my ankle back there,” said Sinbad, then, as Firouz frowned and made a move as if to come and examine him, “It’s fine, I’ll just walk it off.” He turned and hurried away.

“He’s acting awful strange,” he heard Doubar say behind him in what was probably meant to be a whisper. “You think she bewitched him?”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” said Firouz. “She probably just gave him hell. You’ve seen her when she’s angry.”

Sinbad stopped next to Maeve when he was on deck. “So, uh,” he said. She turned to face him, and he realised he had no idea what he’d been going to say. “Good… talk?” He clapped her on the shoulder and began to walk away.

“Yeah,” she called after him. “Maybe we can _talk_ some more later.”

Sinbad flushed, step faltering for a second, then steeled himself and turned to shout at his crew. “Come on, your guys! We better get outta here before the locals see what we did to their manticore!”

Doubar and Firouz boarded the ship, still bickering about whether or not Sinbad had been bewitched. Rongar stood silent as ever. Sinbad realised he was still holding Maeve’s stained handkerchief, and shoved it in his pocket quick. Best forget about that for now.  



End file.
